


Grip of a Hurricane

by schuka



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Drug Addiction, Drugs, Emotional Hurt, Everyone in this fic needs a hug, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I wrote this in two days, New York City, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Recovery, Sad with a Happy Ending, and didn’t edit, the queen’s gambit - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:14:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27923611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schuka/pseuds/schuka
Summary: After her final win in Russia, Beth goes home, suffering drug and alcohol withdrawals.
Relationships: Beth Harmon & Benny Watts, Harry Beltik & Beth Harmon
Comments: 16
Kudos: 67





	1. Played for Love

**Author's Note:**

> note:  
> This is a short fic about Beth’s early weeks of addiction recovery. This is a warning that this fic does include descriptions of withdrawals, drug-abuse, and relapse. For each chapter that needs it, I will include more specific warnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for this chapter: vomiting, slight violence during a fight

It wasn’t her original plan to walk. Not to the airport, certainly not elsewhere. The plan had been to ride to the airport with her bodyguards, head across the world again. Again, again, again, it had all been so exhausting, physically and mentally. So, when her bodyguards came at her with lists of talking points and suggestions for her appearance, she had asked to stop, to get out and walk. As the car door slammed shut behind her, she shoved her hands into coat pockets and shivered when icy air filled her lungs. Footsteps light on the concrete, she came to a group of small children skipping around a dark street lamp, smiling when a little girl gaped at her.

Their laughter carried down the street, mixing with the weary shouts of parents. The joyful sound pulled at something down inside her—something she had thought successfully buried—and tugged loose memories. Or, more so feelings, vague emotions that she couldn’t quite place, lodged in her chest like a stone. Inside their pockets, her fingers curled into her palms and she pointed her chin forward, eager to put the children as far behind her as possible.

Embarrassing really, after thinking that she was over it, thinking that she had learned to do without the burning feeling in her gut and throat each time a parent announced themselves. 

But the further she got, the less she heard, the easier cold air found it to set out the fire in her body and give her once more, a peaceful state of mind. She would have rather the flames lasted for longer than a few moments. At least then she wouldn’t have to convince herself she wasn’t crazy, wasn’t jumping from mood to mood with the instability of the woman whose very memory set it off in the first place. 

Turning a corner, she pulled her hands free and swung them at her sides, a skip in her step, a half-hearted attempt to rejuvenate. For the most part it worked. In the distance, specks dotted the white in her vision, between a building and line of trees. People, when she got closer, sitting at tables in pairs or standing in groups. 

Passing several shops, she hurried into the road and gave the car that stopped a wave of thanks. These people were men, elderly and bundled in coats and scarves, hats and gloves, their heads bent low or titled back in open-mouthed chortles. None seemed to see her when she stopped at the outskirts of their table rows, and she wondered if they would see her pass at all. One tentative step forward, and then another, and nobody turned their attention away from the tables. She came to the first one, eyes widening when she saw the boards and pieces between each man. 

Torn between stopping at every table and observing how they played, what they did and what their next moves were, and continuing, she slowed. No reason to run through the rows to get away, it would only disrupt their games, she was in no hurry to be anywhere, there was nowhere to be. Except here. Here, with these men so intensely fixed on black-and-white. They were so different. Something was to be said about the way they moved, the energy held in the air around them. Different from the men she was used to. 

The men she was used to had been playing since they could walk, holding rooks instead of rattles with their first word being ‘check’. And perhaps these men had the same upbringing—they surely had lived long enough for it to be true—but she had never seen Harry or Benny in the park. Benny in the park playing chess with old men, she could never see that. Smiling to herself, she continued, trying not to linger on one board for too long. 

“Harmon?” At her name, her eyes lifted from a chessboard and searched for the man. “Liza Harmon?” A white-haired elder with crinkled eyes stared at her in near disbelief. 

“Da,” she confirmed as the man’s opponent twisted in their chair and called her name, face lighting up like the sun and arms outstretching, reaching for her hand. Their gloves made the handshake clunky, but his inviting grip could have been felt through a dozen pairs. Several people caught wind of the situation, noticed the woman who had only just passed them. They pushed their chairs back on concrete, shouting gleefully to each other and waving, a semi-circle forming.

She tried to shake each hand, nod to each of them, and found their nature calm, patient, so unlike those that waited for her after each game to snap pictures, yell questions, demand her answers and time. After they had shaken hands, they stood back, let others get a chance, and she made a conscious effort to slow down, to give each of them a proper handshake.

A chain of them split to give her space and the white-haired man came into view again, his hands folded under his chin. When the path was clear, he motioned to the empty chair. Only after making sure his former opponent was perfectly fine with it did she sit, slip off her gloves and move her pieces into their proper place and run her fingers over the tops of each one, poking and nudging here and there. Better than the pieces she played with for professional games— not in quality, but in the way they made her heart beat, the way they stole her breath with their grooves and cuts, the shape of their bases and tops. 

Locking her fingers, she dug her chin down on her knuckles and met her opponent’s eager gaze. 

“Sygray nam.”

The warning signs came early in their game. She had not yet made it to fifteen moves when she became aware of the ache beginning to brew in her temples. Ignoring it, she tried to forget herself in the game, the way he played with no urgency, no deadly drive to win or tunnel-vision anger. His fingers hovered over the pieces with care, picking out a next move while she watched. When she paid it no attention, the dull ache fixed itself into a steady pulse, wrapped around her skull like a tight rubber band. His lips curled, studying the board.

“Liza, Liza, Liza,” with a slight laugh, he leaned back in his chair and glanced up at a man who stood near the table. She blinked, surprised he had spoken. She hadn’t won, not yet. Leaning the side of her head on her palm, she waited for him to continue playing, but he did not, and instead slid his king off the board. “You won.”

“No, I didn’t,” she replied in Russian, the corners of her lips tugging. “Not yet.” A gust of wind blew over and she pulled her coat closer, standing with the man. He thanked her for the game. The abruptness of it all set her fingers shaking as she tugged her gloves back on, and it took more energy than she would have thought to thank him back and return the shoulder-pat he gave. 

Those who had surrounded their table to watch now spoke, but she couldn’t pick up on anything they said, not for long enough to compose any sort of coherent reply. So she smiled and waved and thanked and hugged, her eyelids drooping and feet unsteady. 

Leaving hadn’t been on her mind when she first sat down, not at all, but the more they pressed, the sicker she felt, until she had to force her way out of the crowd and make a beeline for the end of the rows, the clearing in the park that led to a maze of streets and running cars, shouting passerby and harsh Russian.

Turning in a slow circle she huffed out a sticky breath under her scarf and squinted her eyes as the pounding in her head got worse. The world around her expanded, her eyes moving over her surroundings but unable to take them all in, unable to really see anything in front of her. Steps staggering, she ripped the scarf down to her neck and coughed. 

Horns blared when she stepped into the street, but she didn’t wait for the road to clear before rushing to the other side, slamming her back to the wall of a shop and closing her eyes. In her chest, her heart squeezed like a fist, and behind her ribs, her lungs struggled. Over the rough brick wall, she ran her fingers and brought a bit of feeling to her hands, rubbing them pale and dry. Strands of hair caught on the wall.

With no idea why such a debilitating panic had come, she went back and forth in her mind, trying to soothe the parts of herself that tensed and screamed. A shaking breath in and she pushed off the wall, smoothing her hair and rounding the corner. Two men jumped out of the way, their palms outstretched, and whistled when she passed. 

“Are you good, miss?” one of them asked as they jogged after her. She kept her mouth shut tight and hurried, electrical wire stringing through her veins. “You are—hold on, you are Liza Harmon, no?” 

“No,” she snarled, whipping around so fast her vision spotted. They glared at her, looked at each other. She needed to leave, to get out of here, somewhere safe, somewhere she was familiar with. Home, she needed to go back home. “I’m not.”

Fully aware that they could chase her down, she spun on her heels and ran, holding her hat to her head and picking out a crowd up ahead. It was easy to get lost in the bodies, to put distance between herself and the men and their eyes like hot silver spoons. It wasn’t easy, however, to apologize when everything she had eaten in the past few hours came back up her throat and into a puddle on a woman’s shoes. 

When Beth boarded the plane, a child cried. His wails pierced her ears and she was grateful that her seat was far behind him and his family. Shoving her bags overhead and below her seat, she tucked in and propped against the window with a heavy sigh, rubbing her temples with rough fingers. It burned at her hairline, hammered screws through her skull down the middle, but for as much as it hurt, the only thing she could think of was that poor woman’s shoes, the way she had yelled and cursed and brought such a flame to Beth’s cheeks.

God, what had she been thinking, freaking out like that? If someone had seen her, someone who knew who she was, who would talk...she could see the reports now, another problem to add to the lists of reasons Beth Harmon, world-renowned chess player, was a drunken fool, an embarrassment to their already publicly-put down community. 

Sinking in her window seat, she pulled her hat as far down as it would go and ducked her head. A woman walked through the aisle and made sure passengers were settled, Beth buckled before she was told, going back to the view of clouds overhead that would soon be so close, close enough to touch. But even the clouds were too harsh, closed eyes were the only way she could get a bit of pain relief. Twelve hours on a plane with such an aching body, all she could do was hope to sleep it through. 

A woman sat next to her, Beth’s eyes flying open when the seats shifted. They exchanged a polite smile, as polite as she could muster after the interruption. If the woman recognized her, she didn’t show it, immediately settling in with a book. Beth watched her turn a page, and reach into her chest pocket. She wasn’t quiet, and briefly Beth wondered if it might be too rude to ask her to hush up. Taking a little block from her pocket, the woman worked on peeling back a brown wrapper but stopped when she caught Beth’s eyes. 

“Oh, do you want one?” 

Blinking, she looked around, “Uh, what is it?” 

“Ginger candy. Helps nausea, gets terrible on flights for me.” The woman popped the candy in her mouth, grabbed another and held it out. As if hearing the conversation, Beth’s stomach gave a little twinge and she grabbed the block. With it out of her hand, the woman smiled and went back to her book, sniffing loudly. 

Seconds passed where she looked at the book and the woman’s young face, calm and red-nosed, wanting to thank her or to ask what she was reading, but in the end she squeezed the block in her palm and leaned against the window again, letting her eyes close on the world while the plane got ready to take off.

Once the plane had been in the air for some time, her stomach acted up again, tensing and twisting to a point past flight-nausea. Still, she wrote it off as such and tried to focus on her pocket chessboard, moving through a game her muscle-memory had started. The candy woman had noticed discomfort from Beth early on, giving her a few extra ginger wraps, but even those weren’t enough. Sure, the chewy sugar that stuck to her teeth worked in distracting her thoughts from her failing body, but as soon as she swallowed, they returned. Not even a glass of ginger ale from the beverage cart worked. It wouldn’t, she knew, not when it wasn’t the flight or her nerves or even a fever that gave her a queasy stomach and angry skull. 

There simply weren’t enough ginger chews or glasses of ale in the world to rid her of withdrawals. She knew this, and yet as hopeful as a child, she tried. Clicking a pawn pin into its proper square, she gritted her teeth and let each wave pass over her, rock her body back and forth. Getting clean was something she was better off doing safely at home, but from the moment she beat Borgov, hell, from the moment she got off the phone with Benny, she had decided to stop. Of course, that didn’t keep her from chugging a ‘celebratory glass’ the same night. 

Snacks were wheeled down the aisle and the candy woman asked her if she wanted anything, getting herself a small bottle of water. 

“Ah,” she looked from her tiny pieces and scanned the cart. “Two bars of chocolate and...a water, thanks.” It was passed down to her, and she set the chessboard in her lap to grab the goods. Chocolate was better than an empty stomach, right? And it wasn’t as if she was going to pass up Alyonka chocolate. Leaning to slip one of the bars in the side pocket of her bag, she picked up a chess piece that had fallen to the floor and shoved it away. 

“So,” the woman said when Beth leaned back, sipping from her bottle. “You play chess?” Water was foreign on her tongue during flights, and she bit back the urge to ask for alcohol before a single syllable could leave her mouth. 

Cringing when the rubber band around her head tightened, she nodded. “Do you?” The woman let out a sputtering laugh, nearly choking, and capped the water. 

“Goodness, no, it’s far too complicated.” 

“Not really,” Beth gave a shy smile, and when the woman did the same, she scooted over in her chair, placing the tiny board on the armrest between them. “So, what you want to do is checkmate the king.”

“How?” 

“Well,” she began to move the peg pieces into their correct slots, flitting her eyes up to meet her new opponent’s clear and curious stare. “You put him in danger.”

Under her sweater, Beth’s skin burned. She was hunched over with her shaking hands pressed to the sides of her head, eyes nailed shut to block the dim plane lights. No room to breathe, no room to stretch out in the little seat. Sleep called to her, but she wouldn’t answer, not like this. Instead, she crawled over her snoring seatmate and stumbled into the aisle, back toward the bathroom. 

A locked door in a minuscule bathroom could only provide so much solitude when snores, coughs, and whispers filtered through the cracks. White light cast shadows on her face in the mirror, sharp and grey under her eyes, along her neck. Fingers wrapped around the edges of the metal sink bowl, she took deep breaths in and out, pressing her lips hard together. She ripped at the sweater’s neck, trying to cool off, and though all her bags were at her seat, she could feel them pressing to her shoulders, pulling her to the floor where she curled beside the open-lidded toilet and let her hands move to the rim. 

Chocolate and today’s lunch churned in her stomach. Bull-breathe came through her nose and she rocked, pleading with herself to get control, to get everything under control because if she threw up in an airplane toilet , there wasn’t a chance in hell she’d be able to live it down. A drop of sweat rolled around her ear. She couldn’t control her stomach, not when it squeezed so violently, all she could do was hold onto the rim of the toilet and shut her watering eyes. Warm, chunky liquid spilled into the bowl, leaving acid in her throat and nose, a putrid odor filling the room. Several times she heaved, until nothing would come out and she was left choking and spitting orange chunks from between her teeth. Resting her forehead on the edge of the seat, she gasped, readying for another wave. 

A nasty burp bubbled and she gagged, hurrying to hover over the bowl. Nothing but dry heaves came to her then. Somebody knocked at the door.

“Miss? Are you alright?” 

Her hand fumbled to flush the toilet. “Yeah,” she called out, groaning while pulling herself to stand and flip the sink on. No amount of water could get the taste out of her mouth, so bad that her eyes watered and she debated staying in the bathroom for the rest of the flight, away from everyone else where they couldn’t smell it. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine, just…all good.” 

“Alright,” he paused, and she could hear him whispering to someone else. “We’ve got a little boy out here waiting.” Just her luck, really. Wincing at the lingering stench, she dried her scrubbed-raw hands and face, trashed the paper towels, and gave the tiny room a once-over. “Ma’am?” She swung the door open just as the man raised his fist to knock. They looked at each other for a moment before Beth ducked under his arm and shuffled back to her seat, head bowed. Her seatmate was awake, eyebrows drawn close and frowning, but nothing was said until she had sat down. 

“Honey, you look like shit.” 

“Thanks,” Beth shot out, glaring at the blinds drawn over the window. 

“I say that in the nicest way possible.” She rolled her head to give the woman a fleeting glare before turning away again. “Do you need anything?”

Her nose held onto the scent of her vomit, and she prayed it wasn’t as strong to those around. “You know,” bringing her knees to her chin, she folded herself small in the seat and wrapped her arms around her legs. “I’d really just like to sleep.” 

The woman didn’t say another word, but gave her a little shoulder pat that Beth really wanted to appreciate, but couldn’t. Not with the world whirling, not with her skin hot to the touch. She kept her angry temper locked away behind her heart. 

Life in the airport bustled, children galloping after exhausted parents, lovers with their hands laced, elderly looking for young. Beth made her way through in a trance, apologizing as if she weren’t all there whenever she stumbled into a figure. The very moment her feet had set on the airport floor, she’d hurried to get away from those she’d shared the bathroom with. Just remembering made her abdomen tense, waiting. America recognized her more frequently, several stopping her for an autograph or to ask a question. Each pen had wavered in her hand, just as her answers. 

Outside was much more manageable, a breath of fresh air. Darkness did little to cloak her white coat and leggings, and she ditched the hat and gloves, letting the wind rustle her hair. Because nobody had known she went back home, nobody had been able to call someone to take her home. Standing outside the airport, she looked behind her past the glass to the bright, lively inside. Then the dark outdoors, a vast lot of parked cars and late night travelers rolling suitcases through puddles.

When the option of walking all the way home didn’t strike as particularly favorable, she sighed and gathered her bags and suitcases into her arms, thanking the man who held the door as he walked out. 

Once someone had been called, it didn’t take long for them to show, headlights blinking and a window rolled down, and in the car it was easy to dissolve, to slump with fatigue and watch streetlights and traffic signs pass, trees slow dancing in the dark as the driver made his way through the city toward her neighborhood. Intertwined fingers in her lap, she rested her head on the seat and listened to the gentle roll of road underneath her take her away from the present.

Home brought more challenges than she cared to admit to having, memories that made her wish very briefly that she had stayed in Russia, digging a cave into avoidance and living in it, thriving in it. Better than the lump in her through, the unease from her surroundings. But Russia wouldn’t have ever been a permanent residence. 

Her street screamed the point of no return. Around the corner were brick and panels, paved drives made her heart thump in her ears and she wrung her hands together, getting her bags ready. The car stopped on the road in front of her house. Stiffened muscles pulled her from the car, bags hanging from her arms and suitcases in hand. On the porch she watched the car drive off, half wishing that it would come back and let her in. When she could do nothing more, she fished for the keys and slid the right one into the lock.

For a moment, her brain blanked, until she saw the keys in her and remembered where she was. Letting herself in, she kicked off her shoes and let the bags drop in front of the stairs, leaning against the desk. 

Red numbers told the time on the digital clock, past midnight. Chest caving, she crept to her bedroom, holding the stair railing. At the doorway, she caught herself on the dresser before the floor could come crashing forward. Springs squealed when her weight hit the mattress and she buried under the covers, eager to let everything float away. For a moment it seemed her body had resolved to give her a break.

But the harder she struggled to get comfortable, the hotter the room became, the harder she had to fight to keep from puking, keep from crying out in pain while her brain throbbed in her skull. A sliver of moonlight crawled between loosely drawn curtains, spotlighting an empty bottle on her bedside table.

Like the moonlight that night, the aches and pains waxed and waned, cycling again and again and again until everything was too much to handle and she clutched at her bedsheets, folded in on herself like a child. Weights settled on her chest, keeping her down while the ceiling swirled above. Desperate for black and white squares, she waited as what had earlier been a simple headache turned to nothing short of a fucking storm, biting rain and howling wind, slapping at her ringing ears.

Dry eyes begged to close, so dangerously tired and yet she couldn’t sleep. Sweat stuck between her and the tangled bedsheets that strangled her legs and choked her out, keeping her glued on the mattress. Rubbing her stomach, she kicked out blindly, hitting the bed frame. 

Deep breath.

Eyes closed.

Give in.

The ocean rushed in her ears, crashing on her eardrums. Sticky sweat caked her neck itchy layers. In a moment, it would slow down, it had to. Faint at first, her heartbeat underlined the ocean, growing and gathering speed until it was thrumming in her chest, boom, boom, boom, boom. Chest rising and falling, she clawed at blankets, sheets protesting her escape and slamming her down to the carpet where the hard impact was enough to bring her stomach up her throat again. 

Rolling, she grabbed at the mattress to stand, gaping like a fish for fresh air in a pool of vomit. Legs weak underneath her, she made a dash for the bathroom, collapsing in front of the toilet and shoving the lid up just as her insides pulled out, again and again with no signs of stopping. Tears rolled down her cheeks, pissed and shamed. 

And there it was. Like a hunger—worse than a hunger—buried in her bones. The need, the craving. Fuck, it shook it’s iron first and tossed her logic out the window, called to her in every way and there was nothing seductive about it anymore, nothing fancy or funny, not like the first time she had ever met with a craving, years and years back when it was all so new. It was different now when she was older, it’s words urgent and promising to make all the pain go away. Easy, it would be too easy to dig around in the cabinet for her emergency stash, but what other emergency would there be? Only for this night, just until the sun rose over the house and she could try again. Just an outstretched hand, behind a bottle of shampoo, she could be back in the Methuen Home, swallow after swallow until the floor raced to catch her body as it gave out. 

She crawled from the bathroom to the stairs, missing the wooden railing and barely feeling when she tumbled down the steps and vomited once more. Heartbeat rapid in her chest, she pleaded with her lungs to take more, to work. Blind, she grabbed for the phone on the desk. Missed. Again. Missed. Screaming, she threw her arm over the edge of the desk and grabbed the phone, sending it falling to the ground. Muscle memory twirled the numbers after she pressed the phone hard to her ear. 

Pick up, pick up, pick up—and he did, he did, a scratchy voice that was undoubtedly his formed her name as a question and she swallowed thickly.

“I need...I need help, like…now.” 

Through the window the earth broke the surface, parting grass and weeds and sliding into the street in clumps illuminated by rain-shined streetlights. Thunder banged and she tugged the curtain shut with a scowl, narrowly missing the edge of the coffee table when she stepped back. Steadying herself on the couch, she moved with heavy steps toward the kitchen. There had been no emergency pills in the cabinet, not a single one, not a trace of the powder in the capsule, and she had cursed herself for being stupid enough to believe she wouldn’t need them. Pushing forward, she clawed at the door frame but it did nothing and her cheek smashed into the kitchen tile. Every obscenity was drowned by roaring thunder. 

With glazed eyes she stared at the bottom of the fridge. The rain got louder for a moment until a slammed door closed it out, and she brought her palms to her chest, bringing herself to her knees, reaching for the fridge handle. Reaching, reaching, but another hand stopped her and when she twisted to see who, she couldn’t help but cuss. Strong arms lifted her, his shoulder supporting her when she leaned a bit too far. 

“Did you take anything?” he asked, blocking the fridge when she attempted a grab at the handle once more. “Beth, what did you take? Beth?” 

“Mh,” she shook her head loosely, patting his arm, “Nothing.” An open window would do well, she could hardly move without feeling the urge to throw up. 

“We both know that’s a lie, come on, lay down,” he had no trouble leading her to the couch, and cleared a few chess pieces so he could sit beside him. He gave her wrist a gentle tug until she dropped beside him, head lolling back. “Do you know how much?” Her head fell to his shoulder, kept going until she was nearly in his lap and he had to push her back. 

“There’s…in the fridge,” she ignored his question. But he stopped her from leaving the couch. “Harry,” she warned, eyes on his fingers, loose around her arm. “Let me go.” Another tug. 

“You called me over to help,” his nails were cut short, or bitten. A kick in her heart, she tried again and again until it hurt to try and free herself and pushed his arm with her free hand. “You called me over to help, I’m not going to let you drink.” The more she struggled, the more he talked, the harder he held her, the more frantic she got. 

“Let me—let me go.” Her wrist ached. “the hell is wrong with you?” Looking away from him, she coughed and pushed at his chest like a child, acting like a fucking child but she couldn’t stop, he wouldn’t let her go. If he would just let go, let her grab a bottle from the fridge, everything would be okay again, her headache would go, her heartbeat would settle to a normal pace and she wouldn’t shake so much, she wouldn’t— “ Let go!” 

She threw up. Barely managing to lean over his lap. And he moved, holding her hair out of the way. But she didn’t stay like that for long, bolting to the kitchen as soon as she could sit up without her vision cutting out. Snatching a bottle from the fridge, she leaned on the counter to try and pop the cap off. He was there, making a grab for the bottle she held so close. 

“Back the fuck up,” she spat. 

“Beth—“

“What?” The bottle cap came off and she flicked it to his feet. “What? You want…what do you want, to save me?” Swishing the liquid around, she laughed harshly. “Just leave me alone, okay, just…” With a rush of excitement Beth tilted the bottle, but it never got to her lips. He poured the alcohol right into the sink, his eyes never leaving hers. 

A beat of silence. 

Her head fell forward, mouth agape. “What the hell?” 

“You called me. You called me asking for help, I didn’t come here to watch you get drunk.” Setting the bottle in the sink, he shook his head at her, hand outstretched. “Please, can we just go sit down?” 

Maybe the bottle wasn’t completely empty, maybe she could lick the sink, still get a bit of it, just enough to satisfy. His hand shook. Blood boiled in her veins, heart hammering in her throat, loud in her ears and unrelenting. When her own hands shook, she wrapped the sleeves of her sweater around them several times. He was far more patient than expected, closing his hand when she didn’t take it, letting it drop to his side, bouncing off his leg. He was a friend. But the cravings didn’t give a single fuck who Harry might’ve been to her, they didn’t care that he was a friend, they didn’t care that they might hurt him—they might make her hurt him. Louder, they screamed and dug under her flesh, searching for veins, bloodstreams they could pump through like hunger did her stomach, like thirst did her tongue. Nothing could make him understand, nothing in the world could ever make him understand, he knew what it was like to watch another go through it, but he had not a goddamn clue—

Hands curled to fists inside her sleeves, she set her jaw and tried to look at him, really look at him, not through him. “I’m going to leave. I’m sorry, but you can’t keep me here.”

He looked about to protest, but she wasn’t about to get into this, she was leaving and nothing he could do would make her stay. He blocked the doorway, her breath wavered. 

“Move.” 

“Beth—“

“Move!” Like a bull, she shoved at him with her shoulder, backing him up by force to the table. “I’m sorry but I am gonna leave, I am.” 

Black and white squares covered him from head to toe, his moves mapped and predictable. So easy to topple over, to control, especially when he stood in her way. Before he could speak, she shoved, moved past him. And when he hurried to block her way to the front door, she knocked him into the desk. Thunder boomed. On the floor, his limbs sprawled, head bent, unmoving. If it hadn’t been for the slight lift of his chest...even the rain was silent, leaving only her to stand over him, fallen among open books and puddles of puke. Leaving her to debate going outside, or help him. She held her breath, hands flexing out at her sides. Perhaps she shouldn’t have called. Everything would be better, could’ve been avoided if he had never showed up, she didn’t need help, she hadn’t needed anything, she had only been scared. 

But she wasn’t scared anymore, not at all. He didn’t move, but she left his side, stalking to the fridge and rooting for another bottle. A few were left, buried underneath fruits and a block of cheese, and its cap came off easier. Alcohol didn’t burn, not anymore. Bringing the bottle out to check on him, she found that he had opened the front door. Their eyes met, and there was something so dark in his, a look of plain fear twisted on his features before he ducked out into the rain and shut the door. At the window, she watched him run to his car, watched him pull out and speed away. 

Draped over the couch, she sipped at the bottle, trying to make it last, feeling nothing but relief when it took away the discomfort in her body, just as promised. Pouring the last of it down her throat, she let the empty bottle slip to the floor with a thud and stared at the ceiling, breathing in and out, in and out...in and out.


	2. Expensive Bottles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for this chapter: drug use

Since she was nine years old, Beth had been playing chess. That had always been well-known, once word had gotten out. Not so well-known, however, was the reason why she played. Reporters fabricated a sob story as explanation, long and drawn out about how she needed control over something, how she had a deep-seated desire for domination stemming from a lack of authority and voice in her pitiful life, a story that she had helped bring into the light, a story that continued well into adulthood. It was possible that a bit of it was laced with truth, if she tried hard enough she could see what they saw. The drive to win, stronger than most players, the absolute wreck she put herself through when she failed, the tunnel vision. All very true, and yet when she thought of her playing the way they did, she wanted to explode. But then, was that not exactly their point? 

She tossed the magazine aside and shifted forward to study her chessboard on the coffee table. 

Since she was nine years old, Beth had been doing drugs. Nobody but those who lived or worked in Methuen Home knew, not even those she considered friends, those she would tell most anything. Fucked, hooking children on drugs instead of getting them help for their problems, but as much as she wanted to blame them…she couldn’t. It hadn’t been the home that made her steal Alma’s pills and continue the abuse instead of getting clean when she had the chance, it hadn’t been the home that gave her that first sip of stinging alcohol. All that was on her, especially now,  _ especially  _ now. Because she could get clean, couldn’t she? She could stop just like she had planned after her win with Borgov, prove to herself and to others that she wasn’t an  _ embarrassment  _ to the name of chess. But she couldn’t, no matter how hard she tried…luck of the draw. 

Slamming her second empty bottle to the coffee table, she swooped her arm over the chessboard and sent pieces flying. When Harry left and she had finished a bottle, she swore to drain the rest if she found any, but by then, it was too late. 

The headache was gone, as was the stomach bug and heart palpitations, and she wasn’t in any hurry to get them back. Groaning, she stood and stretched, heading to the desk where books and her clock were still on the floor. A corner of her best chess book was covered in sour, curdled milk-vomit. Dropping it, she fixed the clock on the desk’s corner. Hours had passed since Harry left. Her hands lingered on the phone after she set it in its place, playing with the cold beige handle. 

Two days since her win with Borgov and he hadn’t called. Not to congratulate her, or even to see how she was. Not that she expected him to, but when he called before the game, telling her he’d been up since four in the morning studying and playing out different moves, all to help her win, well she couldn’t help but feel a bit of hope. 

Hope seemed to be a tiny bug under his scuffed boot, squashed and irrelevant. She bit on her lip, eye twitching. The voice in her head told her to call, to swallow any pride she might have and admit that she was in the wrong, to call him. But she told the voice that it was unlikely he would answer, and left the phone while she went about cleaning. 

No amount of spraying and scrubbing stained carpet would drive him from her mind, and things came to the surface of her mind while she was on all fours trying desperately to get her own mess into a rag so the entire house didn’t smell of failure. Things she would rather not remember while dealing with something so gross. Everything had fallen apart, slipped between her fingers like sand, leaving her closing around thin air. And worst of all, it was entirely her fault, she couldn’t find a single thing to blame him for. To blame anyone for. 

Pausing over a fresh puddle outside the bathroom, she leaned on the balls of her feet and blew a bit of greasy hair from her face. Obvious what she had to do, why he wasn’t calling. Those two days of silence warped in her mind, becoming two days where she could’ve done better, or at least tried, two days where if she had just stuck with her plan to stay clean after the game, she might’ve actually made progress. 

As it stood, she was on the ground with a budding headache as the alcohol started to wear off. Dropping the rag and gagging when it made a squelching noise, she stood and hurried to the stairs, wiping her hand on her jeans as she went. His number sprang to the forefront of her memory, she’d never forget it, even if she tried.

He didn’t answer. She tried again, tapping her bare foot. This time when nobody picked up, she let the phone fall with no care as to how it landed, heading back the way she came. Stupid, so stupid to think he would actually answer, they were done. They were done and would never talk to each other again and it was  _ her fault _ and there was nothing she could do about it if he didn’t answer his goddamn phone. Muttering a curse under her breath, she shut herself in her room and left the last of the cleaning for later. 

Borgov’s game had cursed her. Cursed her good, why else would everything be ripping at the seams like it was? Drawer after drawer to her dresser was opened, rooted through and shut when she found nothing hidden in its contents. Under the mattress was just as barren, nothing between the stack of books on her bedside table, nor in a pocket of dirty jeans. 

Brushing her hair back, she paced a semi-circle around her room. Then another. The air in the room was too stagnant, too warm and she struggled out of her sweater, toppling over when she tried to get out of her jeans. Grumbling, she pounded her fists into the carpet. Nine year old her hadn’t thrown as many tantrums. But then again nine year old her had been high every waking minute.

Never hurt to look again, she supposed, stumbling out to the bathroom and opening every cabinet, giving them the same treatment she did her room and ending just as empty-handed. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” the counter was cold on her forehead. 

Sometimes she could beat the cravings. Or, not beat, as that would suggest they went away after she made the right choice, no, she could outrun them. At least for a bit, a moment, however small a moment it came out to be. She could take all the aches and angry starvation and if not get rid of them, understand them a little better. Sometimes, she could keep clean, suffer through the withdrawals and go on with her life with the promise that it would soon be better growing louder and louder, mantra, a plea. Other times, she cracked under the pressure. 

Lifting her head to the bathroom mirror, she stared back at the reflection and found that she couldn’t recognize it as her. This woman, with her stringy, greasy hair and dull, tired eyes, dry skin and lips, it couldn’t be her. All she met when she reached out to touch the woman was glass. This woman wasn’t real, she was so foreign that Beth couldn’t possibly wrap her head around the fact that they were the same. 

With a shaky, shallow breath, she lowered her hand from the glass, cutting the light as she went, abandoning herself, trapped in that mirror. Pulling on the first clothes she saw—the dirty jeans and sweater—she headed downstairs. Like being underwater, the sound deafened, faded until all she could hear was the low buzz of the refrigerator on her way to the front door. 

The air stuck when she stepped outside, remnants of the night’s rain hanging in the atmosphere. Keeping off the silvery grass, she took the sidewalk down the road, destination locked in without her fully realizing where it was she was going. 

It wasn’t cold by any means, but she wrapped her arms around herself, scanning the empty road and still houses, wondering when their occupants would come outside and join the rest of the world. Ahead, a man was walking a spotted puppy that she wanted to ask about but moved away from. Her head was starting to pound again, though this time around she couldn’t hear it. 

Her feet moved on their own, mind on autopilot. Three sharp turns and a few blocks more and she was there, walking into the just-opened building with her small empty jar clutched in her fingers. The man nodded when he saw her, hesitating when she set the jar down and mumbled her request. 

But, after a brief moment of silence, he nodded again and did as she wanted, letting her walk back out with the jar only filled halfway. Her fingers worked quick, opening the jar while the voice in the back of her head shouted, telling her to stop, that it wasn’t worth it, that maybe this time if she could get past the first few days of pain, the end result would be something so amazing she would wonder why she ever wanted to be drunk or high. 

But the three pills in the palm of her hand blocked the voice, and were easy to swallow before she carried on home. 

Vomit spilled into the toilet, splattered onto her hand that she hadn’t had time to move before everything came gushing. Days had passed since her last relapse, she had flushed the jar of pills, irritated when it hit her square in the face what she was doing, or rather what she  _ wasn’t  _ doing. What she was failing at. When the heaving subsided she laid her sweaty cheek down on her wrist and rested for a moment, only a moment. At least she’d made it four days this time. Four awful, sweaty, disgusting days that consisted of nothing but vomiting, shaking, and panicking when her heart started to beat a little too irregularly for her liking. Four days pacing around her house, laying on the couch, the bed, the floor, across the table, pulling her hair out with the boredom that came from being on self-inflicted house arrest. She had gone as far as to block the front door with her desk, the back door with several chairs, a reminder that she couldn’t be trusted anywhere outside the house. At least not until she got past the initial cravings, the withdrawals, of which she had no idea how long were supposed to last, she hadn’t ever gotten this far. Not recently, anyway, and she was willing to bet that getting clean when she was fifteen was a bit different than getting clean at twenty-one. 

Forehead stuck to porcelain, she groaned. The first time she had ever gotten high, back in Methuen Home, it had been wonderful. Scary, yes, as anything new was, but once the initial shock had gone, she’d been left in a slow, peaceful state of mind where she wasn’t thinking about her mother, or her father, or how bad the orphanage stunk of chalk and wood and whatever mush they were serving for meals. And that peace, it had been an addictive feeling, even a bit funny. Her head tilted back to the ceiling, all she had been able to do that first night was laugh.

Twelve years later, here she was, gagging into the toilet when there was nothing left in her body to be rid of, and thinking about how it wasn’t funny, it was just fucking embarassing. Half an hour passed with her on the bathroom floor, nearly passing out each time nausea took over, and another half hour came and went before she had the strength to stand and actually leave the room, toliet flushing behind her. Grabbing the tall glass of water from her bedside table, she made her way slowly down the stairs, taking each step with care to avoid falling or running to the toilet. 

Downstairs, she set the water down and grabbed a sleeve of crackers from the kitchen, knowing she needed something in her system after so long, even if she didn’t feel like swallowing anything. Curled in the chair under several blankets, she switched the television on, ready to let hours go by, melt into another day. 

Water and food helped keep her present, and even worked at the intensity of her headache, though they did little to help her stomach. On the TV, a pair of lovers fought, all sharp jabs and calling each other out on the worst things possible. His black and white static-figure pushed her into the wall. Beth looked over to the phone she’d moved from the desk to the kitchen table. 

Their fight was over as quickly as it had started, with a kiss that made her cringe and curse at the TV for the behavior of fictional creations. Standing to change the channel, she stretched out on her toes, going back for another roll of crackers instead. Second sleeve in hand, she stopped at the kitchen table, TV couple in her mind. 

Hesitating, she shifted on socked feet, listening in on their softer words coming from the living room. Probably too late at night anyway, she poked her head past a wall to look at the clock on the desk. Eleven, close enough to midnight, he was probably sleeping. 

She set the open sleeve of crackers on the table beside the phone and worked her way through his number, receiver hidden under her hair. 

“Hello?” 

Eyes shooting wide, she gripped the handset and nearly choked on the cracker she’d been chewing. There he was, after nearly a week, sounding almost bored. Every sentence, every word she had prepared in the time it took to dial his number was lost on her. Shoving another cracker in her mouth, she took a look around her as if his voice came from elsewhere. 

“Hello?”

“Hey!” Beth flinched at the silence that fell after she answered. 

“Beth.” 

Swallowing thickly, she messed with the ridges on the edge of a cracker. “Yes…” 

Another silence, strung out for long enough that she squinted, wondering if he had set the phone down. But she heard rustling, and waited a bit longer.

He finally spoke, voice low and monotone. “How’re you?” At first his voice brought a smile to her face— him picking up at all would’ve been enough to make her smile but him speaking to her, well—but he seemed so uninterested. Like he’d been disappointed to hear that it was her.

Her smile faltered, “I’m good. Glad to be back home.” 

“That’s good—“

“How are you?” Twirling the phone’s cord around her finger she sat at the table and bit into a cracker. 

“Good.” he said, “Good game, with Borgov.” 

Desperate to hear his voice change, to hear life spring on the other side of the receiver, she talked quickly. “You helped, all of you…I just, I just wanted to thank you.” She was getting used to his silence between what she said, they were responses all on their own. “But I mean…that’s not all I wanted to say.” 

“...What did you want to say?” 

The dining room wall had discoloring where it joined the ceiling, and a spot of paint was chipping to show white. Her grip on the handset slacked, she held it with her shoulder to free both hands, pulling them under the sleeves of her freshly-washed jacket. Cracker crumbs dried out her mouth. 

“Beth?”

“Would you send me away?” she sputtered. 

He laughed shortly, “What?” 

Trying again, she closed her eyes and ducked her head, feeling him two feet away. “If I came to New York…would you send me away?” 

The life in his voice was there when he answered her, held back and amused as if he were smiling. “I wouldn’t.”

Often, Beth’s mind would latch onto a singular thought, an idea. Silent, yet persistent, it would expand and rise until there was no room for her to think anything else, no need to think anything else. That one idea was all she  _ needed _ . When she was playing chess, it came in the form of a move, spurred on by a fierce anger or the drive to win so intense it was impossible to push aside for a more careful, observant approach; and she would move pieces every which way to get that damn move out of her head, only able to take a step back when it was gone, when the flaming coals in her chest and lungs sizzled out. Not always so clever, some thoughts were less welcome, more of an unhelpful nuisance than anything. Like with the Apple Pi’s from high school and their damn shoes, the ones she’d ended up buying when she earned enough because her mind just wouldn’t let it go. It seemed like forever ago that shoes—a pair she hadn’t even liked—were worthy of so much attention. She was torn between wanting to shift back to that sort of simplicity, and wanting to distance herself as far as possible from her past. 

The tunnel-vision had never come from a desire to apologize. Sure, she had given out many apologies in twenty-one years, but never had they been demanding. A lifetime had passed since the first time she came to New York with Benny, but here she was, driving down the road in light rain in midday, trying to slow the in traffic because his apartment complex was drawing closer by the second. 

The top of the building stretched, reaching for the clouds, and her palms held the steering wheel of her borrowed car with white knuckles. It had taken two days to arrive, two days she could’ve spent preparing what she would say to him when he answered the door but were instead spent wondering if he would answer at all or leave her stranded, words saved for a better opportunity. 

A better opportunity that may never come, not again, not when she had been so lucky that he answered her call. If he didn’t want her there, if he didn’t want to see her then he never would’ve answered the line, would’ve said yes, yes he would send her away. But he hadn’t said that. She held his response close and the hope that he wasn’t one to play jokes closer, shifting out of traffic and down a calmer road. What could she say, what on earth could she say that perfectly encapsulated what needed to be said? Kentucky was behind her, a parking space in front, and still she hadn’t a clue what would come from her mouth the moment his front door swung open. The car was parked several times over. 

_ Hey. Hi. Benny.  _ Groaning softly, she ducked under a metal staircase, sure that nothing would be good enough. Coming all the way without a plan, for all the trouble it caused her, it sure was a familiar tactic, and she decided to wing it, to go and knock and say the first thing that came to mind. Swallowing hard, she came to his door and stopped, rocking on her heels. Maybe he hadn’t heard her from his side, maybe she could leave, call him and say she hadn’t been able to make it. Busy schedule, an awful excuse, especially for this.

She knocked. Curses raged in her head, begging her to run right back up the stairs when she started to pace in front of his door, waiting for it to open. Fuck, what had she been thinking, she was insane, this was stupid and she should’ve just ended the call when she heard the tone of his voice. The door swung open and she nearly tripped, feet planting to the ground faster than she’d expected. And there he was, not a goddamn thing changed from what she could see. The rings on his hand clicked on the door, necklace hanging over a black shirt. For a second, all she could do was stare, unmoving and hurrying for words. 

Managing a smile, she messed with her fingers held behind her back. “Why hello, Benny.” The greeting seemed so natural, so easy and careless like she’d been saying it all her life and it was nothing by now, but inside, her heart squeezed and all the air was knocked out of her lungs, and she stood in front of him waiting, waiting for him to move, to speak, to stop  _ staring  _ at her so intensely. A piece of hair fell beside his eye, she slipped her hands into the pockets of her polka dot dress. 

“Hey, Beth.” Letting the door go, he backed inside, clearing the way. Smile faltering, she let him shut the door behind her. His apartment was just as she remembered, down to the pile of cushions that served as a couch. Eyes adjusting to the dimmer lighting, her smile returned briefly in the safe familiarity of his home. “Did you want water?” He held a glass in both hands and went to fill it before she could nod, leaving a silence in place that she turned her back on, drawing closer to the chessboard on his table. Running a hand over the head of a fold-out chair, she studied the board, unable to recognize the exact game but finding the position of pieces in the center similar to something she had played once.

“One of your old games with Beltik.” he said, leaning to look at the board with a glass held out. She took it and sipped, letting the water give her the chance to collect herself without needing to speak. Pulling out a chair, he sat and folded his hands under his chin, taking a deep breath and moving a piece forward. Glass shielding her face, she sunk into the opposite chair and watched his fingers dance around a second piece and push it forward. 

Without thinking, she responded, grabbing a pawn and capturing the diagonal knight. He glanced at her. The bit of hair came closer to his eye. Jerking his head, he made a move, closing in on her black king. It wasn’t a far game, not when she hadn’t been around to play it, but she couldn’t help the shame that came over when the next few moves made it clear there was no way for her to win. Hunting the board for anything, any way to get out of the corner he had her pinned in, she thought that this must have been how Harry had felt, suffocated. Benny’s hand reached over the table, gently laying her king to rest. Their eyes met.

“I’m sorry,” she said, noting the way his expression cleared. “For not coming back to New York. I should have come back.” 

“Beth.”

“I hurt you.”

“You did.” he confirmed, focused on putting chess pieces back in place. “But I’m over it, really.”

“Really?” He nodded. She put the rest of her pawns in their row, fingers moving slow and taking them one at a time. Quieter this time, she apologized, letting him wave at the air. Standing, she came to his side, and he reluctantly changed seats, nudging her water to the white side of the board. “You know,” she started, stretching her fingers against each other. “I actually…I’ve been trying to get clean.” His eyebrows raised. “For good this time.”

As she made her opening move, he drummed his fingers on the table’s edge and said, “That’s good.”

Chess with Benny was unlike chess with any other, no opponent before him had managed to trip her up as much, been able to trick her in a game fueled by logic. Simple in gameplay, it all came down to how good you were, there was no trickery or distraction attempts. Like any chess game should be, really. But it was complex all the same and she could never quite figure out how he made her feel like she was missing something. Surely only he could do that so easily, only he could play as if he weren’t putting in effort, like he was showing off. She knew he wasn’t, not with her. But the way he played, confident and quick, locking in moves and capturing without a second thought, was so much like her own strategy that it was hard to tell where she stopped and he began. 

The way he played made her blood boil. Simple as that. Hours dragged on, so long that her legs had fallen asleep and she had to stand several times to stretch and shake the pins and needles from her limbs. He only stood once in the four hours they had spent at the board, to get a drink, to use the bathroom. Both of them kept silent, only speaking to tell the time. 

Chess while clean proved a lot harder than she had first thought. Something had always felt off when she played without the assistance of pills or a drink, but with Benny it was noticeable, or rather unavoidable. It took longer to notice the little things like mistakes and areas she could move. She missed a capture altogether and he quickly swooped in, ending the game with such nonchalant speed that her head spun. He looked at her as they fixed the chessboard for another game. 

“You’re a bit rusty.”

The words barely had time to leave his mouth before she shoved the chair back and ran, knocking a group of pieces over on the way. He was right. He was right, she was getting rusty, she was losing confidence and messing up in ways she wasn’t aware she  _ could  _ mess up. Chest seizing, she tugged the door open and flew up the stairs, rushing out into the dark night. Pavement blurred with rocks and she stumbled, kicking blindly. She was awful, awful at chess, an awful friend. Shivering, she clasped a hand on her mouth, the base of her throat burning. The world twisted around and around and she could grab hold of nothing, left at the mercy of her own body and pleading for control. Someone grabbed her shoulder and she shouted, drawing back for a punch. There he was, lips forming words she couldn’t hold onto and hands around her arms, keeping her steady as best he could.

His shirt smelled fresh pressed to her face, and she focused so intently on not throwing up on him that she hadn’t realized he was speaking again until he lifted her chin from his chest.

“Come back inside.” And when she nodded, he held her shoulder, guiding her down the staircase and to his makeshift couch where she lowered down on her side and curled into a ball, hands on the sides of her head to try and block out the wind in her ears. “I should call someone.”

At that, she looked at him, standing over her and rubbing his arm. “There’s nobody to call.” 

“I‘ll find someone.” Squeezing her eyes tight, she shook her head slowly. Her hands shook in her hair and she pulled her limbs in closer. Soon she’d be back to normal, soon she would be able to stand and continue their game like nothing had happened, like she wasn’t weak on the floor of his apartment, shaking like a leaf while her muscles spasmed about and her stomach closed like a fist. 

“Please don’t.” 

Getting to his knees in front of her, he brushed a hand on her shoulder as it twitched. “How long has—“

“They’re just withdrawals,” she snapped, moving from his hand, “It’ll go away soon, don’t make such a big deal out of it.”

He was silent. Then, he stood, wrung his hands together and went to the kitchen counter, by the phone. “I’m gonna call someone.” 

“I swear to God if you call someone—“

“You don’t believe in God.” 

She didn’t recognize the man who came through Benny’s front door, not when they talked at the end of the staircase and certainly not when he dipped in front of her unfocused eyes. His hair came to his shoulders, long and silky and reminding her that she hadn’t washed hers in days, and his voice was rough and to the point, confirming to Benny that what she was going through was indeed withdrawals from alcohol and pills. He said that he  _ knew that  _ but  _ how long would it last? _ She perked at that, waiting to hear that in a few days she’d be alright, that maybe she would still get cravings but it wouldn’t take long until those too were gone and she could find out what it felt like to live a life without substance issues weighing her down. 

“Hard to say, honestly.” Her eyebrows knitted. “Depends on how long she was using, and how dependent she was on it. From the looks of it, she was pretty far gone, huh?”

“I’m right here,” she huffed, wanting to take all the hair from his head and come at it with scissors for the way he spoke when he was kneeling right in front of her. He paid her no mind, head turned toward Benny behind him. All she could see of him from the floor was his feet, not even in socks. He had run outside in the cold without socks. 

“Weeks.” He said after a long pause, slapping his knees and standing. “Months…a long time.” She couldn’t hear what Benny was saying or if he was speaking at all, but she watched as the two men went back to the staircase. Months. Months…she couldn’t. She couldn’t do this for months, a few days had felt like torture, she couldn’t do anymore. The muscles in her face loosened and she wrapped a hand around the border of a pillow under her chest. He had tucked a blanket around her, but the biting cold of his apartment still cut into her joints and her wrists ached to be popped over and over again.  _ Months _ . Closing out the world, she focused on the black under her eyelids, rubbing until explosions of stars twinkled over the background. Footsteps came closer but she only rubbed harder and harder, wondering if it was possible to have her eyes fall into the back of her head—

“Beth,” Benny, gentle in her ear and soothing. His warm hand settled on her shoulder, stealing her breath away. “I’m sorry.” There was a tightness to his voice, as if he forced his words out despite the great pain they caused him, like he had to speak them, like there was no other choice, not for him, and she wished he hadn’t opened his mouth, had kept everything deep inside and let the apology rot.

“You can stay here tonight, okay?” His hand was still. “I’ll, uh, I’ll stay with you I guess, you know, to make sure you don’t puke all over my couch.” 

Smiling into a cushion, she reached a hand over her neck to meet his, thumb rubbing his ring. “What couch?”

She waited until the night had stretched for several hours, waited until near sunrise to stand from the cushions and straighten out her dress around the hips where it had bunched. The apartment wasn’t hard to navigate in the near darkness, not when it was so open. A group of candles flickered near the chair Benny was tucked in, and she allowed herself to study the way he fit into its leather, thin limbs folded and hair swooping down into his eyes. Careful not to disturb him, she crept near and extended a single finger, tucking his hair back behind his ear. 

Pulling Benny’s trench coat from its hanger, she wrapped the black leather around her shoulders and slipped her arms through the large sleeves. The top of his head was only just visible from over the chair. She added his hat to her head, grabbing his billfold from the table and taking the cash, leaving it open and empty beside his chessboard. Not giving him another look, she pulled the brim of his hat lower and crept out, closing the door without a sound.

She couldn’t wait months.

The thing about addiction was that it was familiar, more so than an apartment or a face. It was home, it was constant, it was a haven to crawl back to when things got to be too much, something she could always fall back on, if she needed. And it was sweet, with honeyed whispers, telling her that it was there for her, no matter what. It wouldn’t die. Never would, never would, it wouldn’t leave her. It would try to kill her. She knew the game it played, how violent it could get. When the whispers turned to screams, calling to her, tugging at her wrists and telling her that this was what she needed, she needed it. 

And she knew she would relapse, hard. Had from the moment she beat Borgov, the moment she tried to convince herself this time around she would stay clean. Promises were easy to make, not so much to stick by. The waters had been crashing long before she swam under, but even then, even in the moment right before she dove, there was a hope, more of a warning. A moment where she could be whole, could touch and feel and understand, a moment to prepare, to tell herself to soak in the sun while she could before she was pulled under again, drowned again, closed in darkness and dying  _ again _ because that was just how things went. Addiction was her home, a broken, dangerous home that she was forever reluctant to leave. Nothing would ever be the same if she left, nothing would ever be certain or constant. Nothing. She would be adrift, a slab of wood barely floating in the water, unattached. 

The build-up took time, she hardly ever noticed until it was too late. One thing after another, an endless loop of shit to deal with, an endless loop of disappointments, of wounds being ripped back open to bleed out in a puddle at her feet, each time building in intensity until finally, finally, finally it reached a crescendo, sent her barreling over the edge, flailing and grabbing, grabbing at nothing, grabbing at anything. Grabbing for the only thing ready to catch her. 

Expensive bottles tipped back and empty on the bar, the last of money from Benny’s billfold gone and drained down her scorched throat, bottle after bottle until she couldn’t fucking breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t think straight, until there wasn’t anything left to think. She hadn’t a single bill to give him when she got back to the apartment, her hand in her pockets she stomped down the stairs, giggling to herself. This must’ve been how Benny felt everywhere, the trench coat really did wonders for her confidence. Maybe he’d let her borrow it. 

He was awake when she opened the door, standing at the table holding his open billfold. The lights were on, candles put out. She didn’t get a chance to explain. 

“Why’d you take my money, Beth?” straining to hear him, she gripped the metal stair railing to keep from falling and shrugged. 

“I can pay you back…”

“Well that’s not really the point, is it?” He didn't move, but he wouldn’t look at her either. His jaw was set tight and his voice was cool and calm like it had been when they were on the phone. She stopped at the last step, leaning on the rail and peering at him from under the brim of his hat. “I can’t…It’s not my job to take care of you.” He continued, “I’ve got other stuff I have to do. And, uh, I—I can’t…” he wrapped his arms around himself and pushed up on the hard floor. “I like having you here, I really do, I like  _ you, _ but I can’t—“ 

Finally, he looked at her. He sounded almost tired, and she wondered why he had woken up at all, she’d been quiet getting outside. “You gotta go back home.” 

“Benny—“ she started, taking a step forward. A sharp shake of his head stopped her.

“Can I just…can you just give my stuff back, please?” 


	3. What Is Left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s impossible to fit recovery into three chapters, which is why this fic only shows the very beginning of her recovery. I didn’t want to write chapter on chapter of relapses spanning months and even longer withdrawals. I wanted to end this on a hopeful note. I was not a fan of how the show had her walk away from addiction so easily. With this fic, I have tried to show a snippet of what her reality might’ve been.
> 
> warning for: seizure (onset and aftermath)

Beth couldn’t decide how she felt hearing his voice again, hesitant as if he already knew who it was who had made the call. Fingers shaking, she gripped the handset and sighed, eyes shut tight on a nauseous feeling, afraid to speak for fear of throwing up. 

“Beth?” he started to say something else but stopped, held back and gave her a chance to answer. But all she wanted was for him to keep talking. “Is this you?”

“Yes.” 

“Are you alright?”

No. Yes. Maybe. She couldn’t decide. To keep from answering, she followed the script she’d scrawled in her mind, practiced over and over before making the call in the hopes that he would pick up. “I called to apologize.” When he was silent, she continued. “I messed up. I hurt you, and for that I’m sorry.” It was no use, it sounded too robotic, too insincere. 

“Thank you.” he said simply. Squinting, she pressed the receiver harder on her ear. Did this mean they were alright? Would he apologize for leaving her? She started to speak, but stopped when he did. “But…”

“But?” she held her breath, holding the phone’s cord in a sweaty hand. 

“I tried to help you, Beth. And you knocked me unconscious.” 

Blinking, she adjusted the phone on the stairs. “Harry…”

“I tried to help. I did.”

“I know.” she spoke quickly, trying to keep the panic from her voice, the desperation to keep him on the line. 

“I’m sorry. I can’t forgive you…not right now.” 

It took several seconds before she realized he had ended the call. And when she did, the urge to slam the handset over the stair railing raged deep. Standing, she carefully set the phone on the corner of the desk. She was back at Methuen, shoving handful after handful of green pills down her throat, except this time she was throwing books off the desk, letting their pages rip on contact with the living room walls. One crashed into the coffee table, sending both it and a set chessboard flying. He was right. He was right, even if she managed to get clean, nothing she did could be taken back. Bringing her hands to her head, she squeezed her temples and sunk to the bottom step, sucking air through gritted teeth and seeing spots through squinted eyes. He wouldn’t forgive her. He wouldn’t ever forgive her. None of them would, none of them ever would. 

Deep down somewhere in her bones were the cravings, the desire, the ability to take away all the pain, to cancel it out, and God, she wanted to. She didn’t want to get better, fuck everyone else, fuck those she had hurt, she didn’t want to. But she wanted it all back, Harry and his stupid face and slow chess moves, his awkwardness, his kindness, the way the rest of his world narrowed whenever they were around each other. She’d never been particularly interested in him or his advances, but they held such a familiar place in her heart, she didn’t want to be without them, without  _ him _ . 

And Benny, Benny whose smile was unmatched, Benny and his silly cowboy hat and trench coat, the ones she had worn only once but felt a comfort in that she’d never felt before in any dress or pair of jeans. Benny and the way he looked at her from over a chessboard, how he shook her hand before and after a game, even those they played in private. Never before had she believed she might miss the confidence in his voice that so matched her own. 

But neither of them were okay with a druggie friend, and she supposed she wasn’t alright with it either, when it really came down to it. She had to want them more than the drugs, she owed that to them. Owed that to herself too, admittedly, but to think that she was worthy of a life where a small drink was  _ just _ a small drink, not a catalyst, not a relapse… it was impossible.

Watching the white sparkles behind her eyes when she rubbed them, she took a moment to sit there. To collect herself and remind the child in her that she was, in fact, an adult. A fucking adult, acting like this. It was pitiful, really. When she could stand without suffering more than a pulsing skull, she went into the living room to gather the destroyed books. How could it have been her that made this mess? 

Sliding ripped pages into their numbered spots, she swallowed the realization that ‘destructive’ was just as much a descriptor for this new side of her as ‘childish’ or ‘angry’. 

After the books, she went into the kitchen and slid an envelope from a drawer, taking it to her bedroom and closing the correct amount of money inside. Writing his name in the middle, she sealed and buried it underneath a pair of jeans before closing the dresser drawer. He hadn’t been over her skipping New York to get trashed, not like he claimed. He’d just been avoiding another fight. 

She walked back downstairs with pins-and-needles in her feet. 

_ I can’t forgive you.  _ The house was an inferno, devilish flames licking at her skin, her hair, clouding her judgment of the space between the couch and coffee table and sending her crashing. Staring at the ceiling from the floor between the two, she let her lungs deflate, let her breathing stop. An old memory of frantic knocks at the door comes around, a voice begging to be let inside. Harry’s voice. The house was now silent, only a ghost of a woman, a ghost of her. Selfishly, she wanted him. She wanted him to come knocking.  _ I  _ _ can’t forgive you. I can’t forgive you.  _

_ I can’t forgive you. _

_ I can’t…  _

_ I can’t…  _

She couldn’t breathe. A tightness held her chest, pressed on her bruising lungs with knobby knees. Her hands pawed at her shirt, short nails going past the fabric, not able to grasp the threads that strangled her. Numb fingers, numb toes. She couldn’t breathe. Faster, and faster, she tried. And over again, she failed, cried their names through gasps as if they were there, as if they would come running, come to hold her. 

She twisted and bile flooded her throat. Feeling nothing, she hit the wooden legs of the coffee table, wishing the vomit would come out. Her muscles tensed, head twisted back. The flames of the house grabbed the sides of her face, kissed her with an intensity she’d never before felt, and she was falling, stuck in the snatching seconds of a dream-like panic before the world flipped like a light switch, plunging her into darkness. 

Her body seized. 

She came to with an anger lodged so deep it felt normal, too normal, and maybe it was. Maybe this anger, like that of a teenager’s, was simply a part of her. There was snot running along her top lip, and a drool puddle on the carpet. Lifting to her knees, she wondered how she had gotten to the floor in the first place. The anger had cleared her head, gave way to exhaustion, to thirst. 

Yet when she stood to get a drink there was an ache in her muscles so tight she slumped on the couch and breathed heavily. Swiping the snot and drool from her face, she groaned. The house was still and silent, the back of her eyelids red-orange with the light coming through the curtains. If she sat there long enough, eyes closed and mind dazed, perhaps she could sink into the couch, into the house. Let her body rest in its wood.  Nobody would come knocking this time around. She was alone. Undeniably and understandably alone and it was…her fault. 

Her gaze fell on the chessboard on the floor, and ran over its scattered pieces. Slowly, she reached down and grabbed a queen piece, rubbing her thumb over its top. It would be easier to be the queen. But nothing was supposed to be easy. 

She knew it was hypocritical, knew it was fucked, but she couldn’t help the longing she felt, wishing for them to come to her rescue, even after all she had done. Closing her fingers around the queen, she let it weigh her hand down and leaned her head back. She was a bad person, wasn’t she? No good person did the things she had done. Harry wanted nothing to do with her anymore. She suspected Benny felt the same. And even if she could go back to the way things were, that wouldn’t much change anything, she hadn’t exactly been the best at juggling addiction and relationships, at keeping them separate when they could never be that way. She had still hurt them, and would continue to do so. It had never been equal. She had never been able to take a pill one day and go out with a friend the next, could never substitute a drink for a kiss or a cigarette for sex. She had chosen drugs and alcohol over relationships countless times. When she went back home instead of to New York, when she screamed at Harry, knocked him into the desk, when she stole Benny’s money and clothes. Even the instances in which she snapped at Jolene all those years ago in the orphanage came to haunt her. Over and over again she picked getting high, picked getting drunk. Over and over again she pushed them away and expected them to come running back at her next call. 

Queen in hand, she got up with a grunt and headed into the kitchen, staring at the dirty dishes piling in the sink for only a moment, knowing she wouldn’t do them. She hadn’t done them since she got back from Russia, had eaten meals off paper towels if she ate at all. Nothing had ever been equal to drugs, not friendly outings, not kisses, not sex. Even if her partner had been particularly good in bed, there was nothing in the goddamn world that could ever compare to drugs. 

She leaned on the counter, staring forward like Harry was still there. Like she was still spitting at him to back the fuck up.

Nothing. 

Except maybe...chess. 

Mr. Shaibel had started it, and had introduced her to her future lover. The slap, slap, slap of erasers as she tried to get his attention away from the board, the pieces he moved as easily as she slid pills into her toothbrush holder.  _ Now or never.  _ And she had sat, had moved the pieces like she’d seen. That night she’d taken more than usual, had watched as the shadows twisted and turned until they took up a chessboard on the ceiling, had stayed up all night tuning out the snores of fellow orphans to move through plays in her mind. Again. She couldn’t figure it out. Again. What had he played? Again. The knight…the knight…

Again.

Again. 

_ Again?  _ She had slipped her coat off, had let Benny set the board as she sipped her coffee, had ignored the bitterness that came from not adding enough cream or sugar. She hadn’t been good enough at speed chess. Five dollars forked over, and already she needed a drink.  _ Again?  _ If she hesitated, he glanced at her, and the one time she had returned the look she could see the way his eyes glinted with an eager brightness.  _ Again?  _ She couldn’t say no. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction, she would figure it out—dammit she would figure it out. 

She hadn’t figured it out. And the following morning, he’d tracked her down.  _ You’re the best player here,  _ he had said. But she had been starting to think that wasn’t true. 

At ten she had played a simultaneous match against twelve members of the high school’s chess club. Had won. And she remembered the way it had felt, the way it made her head spin as if she’d taken too many pills all at once. She couldn’t do that anymore, they had taken all the pills away. Those cocksuckers had taken all the damn pills away and she had been left with nothing. But that win, that win had been the perfect substitute. 

She had read  _ Modern Chess Openings _ cover to cover. She had read every book she had means to buy.  _ Openings and Tactics. Excelling at Chess. Logical Chess: Move by Move. My Chess Career. Rook and Pawn Endings.  _ She had read it all and still, still she had lost in Mexico City. Had lost to Borgov. He had ripped her beating heart out of her hungover body and left it on the chessboard, pouring blood. And she had let him. Let him bleed her out. 

_ When she blunders, she gets angry, and can be dangerous.  _

But he had beaten her.

He had fucking beaten her. What good were the books, what good was studying when he had beaten her— effectively killed her? 

_ Losing is not an option for her. Otherwise, what would her life be?  _

Nothing. It would be nothing. She would be nothing. It had been an awful match. She had gone back to the hotel room afterwards, already planning all that she would drink. And what she found was not a pawn row of waiting bottles and glasses, but instead the knowledge that she hadn’t been the only one to die that day. 

Now, Beth stared hard at the queen in her palm, thinking of all the games she had played in her lifetime. If she won, the euphoria was like that of a handful of pills. If she lost, the burning in her chest resembled a swig of alcohol. A bottle tipped back. A king in check. Alma had once said that she didn’t understand chess, that it was as if Beth spoke a different language when she called out the names of squares. But she’d been lying. Whether she realized it or not, she had understood. Alma drained a bottle. Beth made a move. Alma swallowed pills. Beth captured. She had understood. 

And she had died. Alone. 

Squeezing the queen, Beth took a deep breath and walked from the kitchen to the phone on the desk. The subtle grooves digging into her thumb, Beth set her closed fist on the desk and set about looking for the number in the book. Maybe she was a bad person. Maybe it would always be like this, maybe she was on a path with no way to stray and to think otherwise would be a blunder. Maybe. But she didn’t want to meet Alma’s fate. Opening her hand, she put the queen to rest and replaced it with a beige handset. 

“Hello?” a man asked. 

“Hello,” she answered, “I’m interested in joining your next meeting.” 

It hadn’t taken long to find the church, but it did take time to gather the courage to walk inside. She took two laps around the building before she caved and pushed through the back door like the man on the phone had told her. Walking into such a place felt odd, she wasn’t religious and had to be assured the group she was meeting with had no such affiliations before she agreed. The only way the group connected to the church was that it was held inside. And even then, in the basement. 

Eyes adjusting to the bright white lights, she roamed past pews and chairs, itchy and hot under her short-sleeved blouse and keeping her arms straight at her sides to keep from bumping anything. Despite the large opening, nobody but her was around. Holding her breath, she walked down the red cloth path, came to the altar, and stopped. A long stand took most of the space, led to by only a few short stairs and covered in a white cloth with golden trim. Her fingers reached of their own accord, eyes far too distracted by then. Fucking nonsense, as she believed. More so now than ever. Yet the white and gold pillars were like that of a painting, beautiful and shining, somewhere she didn’t belong. Somewhere she could never belong. 

“Ma’am?” Dropping the cloth, she turned and wiped her hand on her skirt. A man stood at the first pew, nicely dressed and shaven. When she didn't say anything, he continued, climbing the few stairs and turning to hold a hand out for her. “You’re here for the meeting, I’m assuming?” 

“Yes,” she said, voice as dry as her tongue that peeled from the roof of her mouth. He dropped his hand when she came to his level without it, and gave her a polite smile. 

“Well, the basement is just this way.” Walking past her, he motioned for her to follow. They walked to a hidden door at the altar’s side she hadn’t noticed, and through a narrow hallway. At a second flight of stairs with a room opening below, the lights dimmed. She half expected to walk in and see cushions for a couch, a leather trench coat and hat hanging from a hook. 

Instead, the room at the bottom was nearly blocked by circle tables pushed to the wall. She followed him past, noting the splotches and scratches to each. A cluster of people young and old blocked the last one, grabbing and reaching at something in the middle. 

“Michael!” the guy who showed her down called, startling her. An older man at the take waved his hand and Beth was left standing at the end of the staircase, alone and counting each head she could see. Six at the table, three taking up chairs that formed a circle in the middle of the room. As far as she could tell, nobody was in charge, nobody around to tell them what to do, much to her disappointment. Maybe she shouldn’t have come. Maybe. ‘Maybe’ was a loser’s word. She came to the end table, excusing a path to what was found to be a tray of large snickerdoodles and lemonade in tiny plastic cups. 

“Where’s Bobby?” The man named Michael asked the man who had served as a guide. He held a clipboard in hand, and was scanning the room through wire-framed glasses. 

“Home.” the man replied. “Said he ain’t coming today, I don’t think he’s gonna come at all anymore.” Apparently this was nothing more than a minor setback to Michael, who shrugged and moved on, coming to the three in the middle circle. Beth gravitated toward it as well, two cookies in hand. With nothing else to do, she took a seat and slipped her legs to one side, teeth sinking into a cookie and chewing it slowly while she tried not to listen in on Michael and the people across from her. So he was the one in charge. It felt good to have found him, to recognize his voice from the telephone. He nodded at something a woman said, and looked back at her. Stuffing the rest of the cookie in her mouth, she coughed and looked away while he started to come over to her.

“I don’t recognize you, what’s your name?” She looked at his wrinkly face and said her name in an automated tone, watching him scribble on his clipboard. “Ah, we  _ do  _ have you down…well, we’ll start here in a few minutes, refreshments are over there—“ he pointed at the table, talking fast, “—but you already knew that.” She nodded, unable to fit a word in between his own. “I’ll let you get settled, then—oh, and just so you know, you’re not required to share anything but your name the first day. It can be a bit intimidating.” For all that she heard on the call with him a few days ago, she knew that to be true. 

He left her alone, moved on to the nearest person—a younger bronzed woman, and clicked his pen. Everyone around her seemed to know each other, talking away in cheery voices as if they weren’t all there for such a...less than cheery reason. Maybe they were all high anyway. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. She adjusted her skirt, swallowed hard. 

Harry’s earlier words came to her. And Benny’s face, pushing back on the drunken haze that surrounded the memory of stolen cash and expensive bottles. 

“Circle up, we’re starting!” Michael called, hands cupped even though the basement was tiny enough they could all easily hear. 

She’d disappointed them. 

The diversity of the group stood out. Young. Middle-aged, elderly. White, black, bronzed. Several looked like they could have come right off a poster advertising Coca-Cola. Not at all the look she had associated druggies with in her mind. They had clean hair, shaven faces and new clothes. Like her. Or, rather, how she had been. She hadn’t washed her hair or face in…awhile, and she was pretty sure there was a vomit stain on the bra she was wearing. Others looked like they belonged here, and had no plan to ever leave. 

She’d  _ disappointed _ them. 

“If you couldn’t tell,” Michael took up a chair, everyone else filing around him, scooting chairs forward or back, nudging each other and cussing. “It’s Round-Robin today.” The younger ones slumped and grumbled. 

“C’mon!” a white guy beside her rolled his eyes, “We have that last week.”

“The chairs are set.” Letting everyone come to terms with something she didn’t yet understand, Michael tapped his clipboard. “First things first—we’ve got some newcomers.” 

Well. Fuck. He looked right at her, and a twisted electric feeling hit her veins, rushing up the back of her neck. Waiting, they were all waiting. For a moment she was staring at a chessboard, playing white and hesitating, running through openings in her mind and trying to pick the best one. At least with a chessboard, she nearly always knew what she would choose. 

“Your name, remember?” 

“Beth,” she said before he had finished. “Beth Har—“

“First name only.” 

“Right,” she looked at her hands in her lap. He thanked her for sharing and moved on, let a new man introduce himself. The floor underneath her chair had dozens of scuff marks, gray and black, stretching from tile to tile. She had no problem adding her own with the rubber heel of her slip-on shoe, failing to pay attention to anything that was being said. What would they say if they knew she was here, in a church basement with a group of addicts, about to listen to them talk about all the ways they had fucked up their lives, about to talk about how she had fucked up her own. It didn’t matter what they would say, they wouldn’t give a damn. They shouldn’t. Not after all she had done. 

Why was she here, if they wouldn’t care? If it would change anything, what was the point? She forgot she’d been holding a second cookie, and now tore off a piece just to give herself something to do. A headache was coming on, a dull pain in the side of her head. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and tried to keep it under control, tried to get rid of it. 

“Nicky,” Michael’s voice pulled her back to the present, and she followed everyone’s gaze to the man who’d been her guide. He was messing with a strand of black hair, pulling it between his eyes before letting it spring back to a curl on his forehead. “You wanted to start us off, correct?” Nicky nodded, but took a moment more to paw at his hair before dropping his hands to the sides of the chair, legs splayed out in opposite directions. 

“Yeah, um…I wanted to go first ‘cause today is my—uh—second week clean.” He crossed his arms, eyes moving around the circle. Nobody moved or spoke. “And it was really hard, you know?” There was a tightness in his voice and she looked at his feet, not wanting to contribute to the spotlight he must’ve been under in his mind.

“‘Cause like, everyone was saying like…like, ‘you need help’ or like…that I was going too far, and I just kept saying—“ He stopped, took a breath and slid up in the chair. There was a loose thread on her skirt, the beginning of a black fuzzball. She tugged on it. “And I just kept saying that I had it under control, you know? And then Bobby—I guess I didn’t realize that I had a problem until I had nobody left.” 

Her face softened, and she let go of the thread, looking at him from across the circle and finding that he had shifted to sit cross-legged. Nobody said anything until he waved a hand, signaling he was done. Michael was the first to cave to the momentary silence. He spoke quietly. “Well…here’s to two weeks.” It wasn’t what she had expected. He hadn’t said anything like ‘you have us’ or ‘you’re not alone’, had hardly acknowledged anything Nicky had said. But as she looked around the circle, she knew that was how it worked. Lowering her eyes to the floor, she stared at a gray scuff. Nothing she said would leave the circle. 

She squeezed her eyes shut. None of them would forgive her, not as easily as she had first wanted. And they didn’t have to. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes, and raised her hand when Michael asked if anyone wanted to go next. Eyes turned on her, wide and curious. She didn’t give herself time to back out. 

“I’m here…I’m here because I’ve hurt people.” Their fragile, crystallized voices swam in the back of her mind, tense and unsure and hurt. She shifted in her chair, locking her feet around the metal legs and breathing in and out, in and out, in and out like she had that night after Harry left, in and out the way she had after tilting back another bottle, in and out like she had when she stole Benny’s money. In and out, in and out. Barbed wire had wrapped itself around the base of her neck, cut into her skin. A panic clawed her chest, goosebumps popping on her arms, and she tugged at the neck of her short-sleeved blouse, chuckled lightly. She could feel it, the point of no return. It stared her down over the circle like an opponent did the board, daring her to continue. 

“People that I love.”


End file.
